


Big Enough To Fill You Up

by jentaro



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, M/M, Scent Kink, Vaginal Sex, actually u don't gotta squint it's there SORRY, and it's what he DESERVES, and surprise.. he gay, chapter 2 is an elaborate essay on the nature of love, chapter 2.5 has preg kink if u squint, i think i used too many italics OH WELL, if u squint u can see that eskel is a soft boy, it's what jaskier deserves too, pwp we die like men, song title lyric strikes again in a classic jen manouver, this accidentally turned into a jaskier character study, this is pwp smut 2: the reckoning, this man bouta have his whole career ruined from pussy too bomb, trans jaskier rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentaro/pseuds/jentaro
Summary: If Geralt won't fuck Jaskier, then Eskelwill.Chapter 2.5: *its always sunny title card* Jaskier continues to be fucking gay
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 485
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it is my duty to write the porn i want to see out in the world [pensive cowboy emoji] but it is also my express duty to obliterate [HazelCosmos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelcosmos) specifically **.**
> 
> jaskier said transmasc nonbinary rights even if he doesn't say it outright and i will accept no criticism since it's very sexy and true of him
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ jennyloggins and on twitter @somegarbageisok on main / @slimejen on fandom side!!!!

If Geralt had wanted Jaskier, he had truly had _every_ opportunity under the sun to have him during the past week after they had arrived at Kaer Morhen. Really, if Geralt so much as breathed in the bard’s direction, Jaskier _would_ have jumped at the chance to have at him. To Eskel’s surprise though it had not happened, and to what he _knew_ was the bard’s utter dismay, Geralt kept finding any reason to not stay around him for too long. He kept finding excuses of work to be done, and yes, there is _always_ work to be done around the crumbling castle, but Jaskier is set aside each time they are in the same room in favor of Geralt’s need for distance to the point of insanity. 

Eskel knows his brother well in how he looks at Jaskier and in how he takes care of him, but no move has been made for his bed. It is this silent pining that visibly (imperceptibly to the human) leaves Geralt more frustrated than anything else, convinced that if he let his guard down for even a second, the divines would throw another heart wrenching event at him—even during winter when the worst that usually happened was a stray wyvern coming down the mountain after getting caught in a minor avalanche. Eskel is well aware of his brother’s thought process and habits, of his patterns with people he cares for, and he is also _well_ aware of his unashamed base desires. So to watch this disaster unfold in front of him for such a long while, it is near _painful_. Eskel tires to be respectful of Geralt’s loose claim to him, but the limit to his patience is reached quick.

The decision to go after Jaskier had not come without that week of thought beforehand. A stray that Geralt had taken in for the season since he had nowhere else to be, infuriatingly lovely and well on his way to having even old Vesemir wrapped around his talented and callused fingers. Jaskier had spent the time charming Eskel so completely that he has no choice other than to follow through with the little lark’s blatant arousal. The smell of it keeps lingering around, sharp and musky with a sweetness that he wants to sink his teeth into and _dominate_. 

He wants to bury his nose in Jaskier’s neck and breathe deeply; he is a man that keeps himself fastidiously clean, because of course Jaskier had brought his own soaps with him. Every breath he took while sitting next to him during meals smelled of lavender and chamomile. Such an intoxicating scent that hangs in the air along with the already heady scent of his interest in Eskel (and even for Lambert as he other witcher warms up to Jaskier). It makes him take deep lungfuls of air in, nearly makes him dizzy with need. 

Eskel is on his way up to his room after dinner to grab the book he has been reading at night in the library while everyone sat around the fire. The previous night he had taken it up with him to read in bed, fascinating enough to pass the time. At the very least, something to distract himself with so he is’t rutting against the sheets like the wolf he is, and he would like to get a bit more reading in tonight as well. 

Jaskier is coming down the stairs when Eskel runs into him, lute case strapped to his back. He says something about needing to do some maintenance and that he won't be playing it to save Vesemir the bother of the sound, but that uniquely Jaskier combination of scents hits him and Eskel loses track of the words. He bares his teeth and his chest rumbles with a deep, animal-like growl, stopping the bard mid-sentence. 

“O-oh, did I offend?” Eskel can taste the nervous energy in the air, but there is no _fear_ , only the sharp arousal that is so uniquely _Jaskier_. He can hear Jaskier’s pulse quicken, feels how it thunders once he puts his hand on his shoulder, brushing his thumb over a pulse point on his neck. 

“Can I kiss you?” The question comes out rough, Eskel’s throat dry even with his hot breath coming out in quiet pants. For a moment, Eskel has _no_ idea what he will have to say for himself if Jaskier says no, but he would not have asked for permission if he wasn't sure the bard wanted him. 

Jaskier’s scent spikes, and Eskel can almost _taste_ how wet he is, groaning deep in his throat for how badly he wants to devour him. He doesn’t make his move until Jaskier nods with a pathetic sounding rush of breath from his lungs, leaning forward then to kiss him. Eskel bites at Jaskier’s lip until the bard sings his gasp that just barely echoes back in the empty staircase. Soothing the tender flesh with his tongue, Eskel nearly goes to press Jaskier to the wall, but stops when the lute gently bumps into the stone. It is a small consideration that he gets the silent thanks for as Jaskier brings the lute to his front before leaning back against the wall, pressing his legs together.

Jaskier’s lips are flushed pink, a gorgeous sight that makes Eskel growl low in his throat for how badly he wants to keep claiming them with his teeth. Kiss bitten and spit slick, still slightly chapped even with the frequent use of the sweet honey and beeswax salve that Jaskier paints on them. It is a valiant effort, trying to combat the dry and frigid air of winter howling through the cracks of the keep, but it is a shame that Eskel likes the taste on his tongue so thoroughly.

Standing there unmoving while so close together brings the tang of nervousness back, but it fades just as quickly; the scent of fresh sweat makes Eskel huff a hard breath, and he can see the _want_ written clearly on Jaskier’s gorgeous features. Jaskier reaches for his face, hands gripping the sides of Eskel’s neck, pulling him forward into another kiss. The little lark chirps his praise, moaning into Eskel’s mouth and pressing his tongue up to his teeth. Eskel has no choice but to break apart, pressing his forehead to the wall, gnarling like the beast he is. The only thing grounding him is the half frozen stone cooling his head, reminding Eskel that they are very much in the stairwell where anyone could walk up or down at _any_ time. 

“Geralt is fucking _blind_ ,” Eskel says with a grunt on the end, next to Jaskier’s ear. “Let me take you to bed, show you exactly what you do to me.” Straightforward. Just as Jaskier deserves, instead of Geralt acting like a pup shamefully circling around a mess it has made. 

“Eskel…” His name falls from Jaskier’s lips like a purr, his fingers gripping Eskel by the hair. His nails scratch at the back of his neck, pulling another growl from Eskel that's answered by a breathless, “ _Yes_.”

He wastes no more time in the stairwell, careful of Jaskier’s lute case as he picks the bard up to carry him up the stairs and toward his room. Jaskier makes the most _undignified_ sound, but the arousal is clear in the air. Clear enough that he hopes it lingers long enough for Geralt to run into it and realize Eskel staked his claim first. And if he has a problem with it, they can howl at each other tomorrow.

As a witcher, Eskel is used to keeping a tight rein on his control. In as long as he has been alive, twice longer than most common folk reaching full maturity, not much had ever been able to trip him up. Not like _this_. But he knows, it is winter and he is safe and warm and fed behind the walls of Kaer Morhen, where only snow is foolish enough to cover the ground on the passes up the mountain. Stray beasts were few and far between, and winter hunting is scarce enough that it is easier to store up and cure their food for the long months ahead. At home, Eskel can let go and rest, and he can eat and socialize and restore his energy for the coming year of walking the Path. Here, he can only take so much of this gorgeous, unclaimed vixen giving him eyes across the room and exchanging teasing words before he makes good on his subtle flirting. 

The door to his room shuts heavily, and he bolts it while Jaskier shakily puts the lute case down out of the way just in time for Eskel to press him back against the wall with his lips on him. This time the kiss is deeper, voracious in his need to suck the rest of the honeyed balm off Jaskier’s lips. The little lark moans into it, setting Eskel’s blood impossibly on fire as it courses through his veins, burning through as if his blood is running toxic. Two fists grab either side of his shoulders, bunching up into the loose fabric of his tunic to pull him closer; Eskel obeys and drops his own hands to Jaskier’s hips, gripping them tightly, rewarded with a whimper. 

When they break apart again, Jaskier’s voice is breathy when he says, “Show me what I do to you. _Tell_ me.” 

Eskel pushes his face into Jaskier’s neck and breathes deeply, closing his eyes before nipping at the delicate skin there. Finding his words is a difficult task when his head is swimming with the scent of lavender, sweat, _need_ —he grinds his clothed cock against Jaskier’s hip with a low rumble of his chest, breathing out hot and hard. “I want to _breed_ you, I’m gonna stuff you full of my cock, make you _sing_ with that pretty fuckin’ voice of yours. Want you to _beg_ me to fuck you, gonna—”

Jaskier’s hand moves between them and grips Eskel around his shaft, tugging over clothing enough to make him growl. The added _filth_ of Jaskier’s other hand gripping one of his hands by threading their fingers together with his palm flat against the top of Eskel’s hand is maddening; when Eskel’s palm is guided down between Jaskier’s legs and over his trousers, the wetness seeping through the cloth makes him feel _feral_. “You do _this_ to me, _wolf_.” Jaskier sounds breathlessly confident for how his knees are shaking.

Baring his teeth again, he presses his canines against Jaskier’s neck before opening his teeth to lick up the expanse of his throat, slow and wet with drool for how a starved _beast_ wants to _devour_ its prey. Jaskier’s throat flexes around a hoarse gasp while Eskel’s tongue traces up to his cheek, leaving spit behind. At the same time, Eskel takes their hands and presses the heel of his palm against his cunt. “I breathe it in every time you walk into the same room as me; I can _smell_ what you want from me Jaskier. I can hear you squirm, can almost _taste_ you. We all _know_ what you smell like when you want to _rut_ with me,” Eskel snarls again, scraping his teeth against the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, grinding his palm down on his cunt again, then moving up so he can slip his hand inside Jaskier’s breeches.

Jaskier moans, legs nearly buckling when Eskel’s fingers graze his clit, pushing his folds apart with his middle and index fingers—he gives the bard credit for locking his knees and using both hands to undo the lacing on the front of Eskel’s trousers. “From the second I put my eyes on you— _fuck_ , I-I wanted,” Jaskier stutters for a breath when Eskel pushes his fingers lower and into his slick, rubbing it into the skin around his hole, “I wanted to get on my knees a-and,” he stumbles again when he frees Eskel’s cock, hard and heavy in his hands. 

That’s when Eskel pushes two fingers in Jaskier, and growls out, “Gonna fuck you so full of my cum that you’ll _crave_ it every fuckin’ night, make you want to warm my bed…” 

“I will have you begging for _me_ , wolf,” Jaskier says sincerely, squeezing Eskel’s cock and drawing a grunt from him. Only Vesemir had ever called him and his fellow witchers ‘wolf’, at least, nobody that ever meant it in anything but a negative light. And now Jaskier has _twice_ in a way that makes him want to yield, but he’s not about to bare his throat so easily.

“The _mouth_ on you, bard,” Eskel says as he pulls his fingers out, stepping back from him. He makes sure Jaskier is watching when he sucks his own fingers clean of slick.

“Been told it’s filthy,” comes the reply as he watches him get down to his knees. He doesn’t look up as he takes hold of Eskel’s cock in his hand again, only when he licks his lips and attaches his mouth to the side, sucking wetly on the side of his shaft. His fingers find and card through Jaskier’s hair, breathing out a sigh that has Jaskier moaning into his cock. “Wanted to do this when I saw you, get on my knees for you and...” he says, throaty voice trailing off with a lick up to the head, taking Eskel’s cock into the warmth of his mouth. 

Which reminds him, the room _is_ cold, and humans tended not to do so well in the cold. Turning his head, Eskel thanks himself for remembering to put another log in the fireplace that morning. Casting igni, he is satisfied when the glow springs up, knowing the air will warm up soon.

He moans deep in his chest when Jaskier’s mouth comes off and moves down, tonguing at his balls and pressing his nose against him. His deep inhale and the immediate heady scent of arousal intensifying in the air makes Eskel involuntarily _shudder_. Dropping a forearm to the wall, Eskel steels himself, biting his lip when Jaskier’s tongue presses into the sensitive skin behind his balls. “It’s _obscene_ ,” his mouth, Eskel means, “I’m—” interrupted when the bard sucks his sac into his pretty mouth, makes Eskel bite back another moan. “Gonna use it all winter.”

His cock _hurts_ , hard and hanging heavy next to Jaskier’s head while he continues trying his hardest to make Eskel _beg_. He holds himself upright and keeps his control, trying to cool down, but Jaskier pulls his mouth off and looks up at him. Eskel watches _helplessly_ as Jaskier spits into his palm and wraps it around his cock, stroking him slowly. “You have terrible manners, _wolf_ ,” he starts, and again, Jaskier says ‘wolf’ with an inflection that goes straight through him, makes his cock _leak_. “At least ask me first.”

His legs feel _weak_ , and he reasons it must be because he hadn't had a chance to visit any brothels over the past year, having survived on his own touch during lonely nights. Another year lean on coin, no dissatisfying pleasure to be spared for the price. It has _nothing_ to do with Jaskier’s fingers swiping through the mess, bringing his fingers down to where his trousers are hanging slightly open and smearing the mess across his skin. Jaskier’s other hand lets go of Eskel, instead tugging his shirt up to make it easier and not waste any of his precum on the fabric. The moment Eskel realizes that Jaskier is rubbing his clit with the mess, heat _sears_ through him. Jaksier’s gorgeous moan as their eyes lock fully makes Eskel choke on a breath, and then he opens his mouth to take Eskel’s cock between his lips again, making him feel _ruined_.

As soon as his cock slides in again, Jaskier takes him _deep_ , sucking him in and using his tongue to curl around the shaft best as he can with the girth of him. Eskel’s throat is _dry_ , he’s sweating, almost _dizzy_ with lust. When Jaskier takes him deep enough in his throat for his nose to hit the coarse hair at the base of Eskel’s dick, he’s _close_. Jaskier moans around him again, bobbing his head best as he can, ripping a whine from Eskel that he tries to muffle into his forearm. 

It is _torture_ when Jaskier pulls off, spit connecting his lips and Eskel’s cock while he grabs tight onto the base. His voice is gravelly as he speaks, still rubbing at himself and visibly shaking from the exertion. “I bet you wanna come on me, mark up my skin and rub it in so _everyone_ knows what we’re doing.” Jaskier takes a breath and drags his lips down the side of Eskel’s cock, tongue peeking out and dragging _wet_ across sensitive skin. When his lips leave, Eskel _whimpers_ , and then he growls, the rumble starting deep in his chest to compensate for the soft noise. Jaskier presses a wet kiss at the crease of his thigh, and he can _feel_ Jaskier shiver as his lips press up, kissing to Eskel’s hip.

It’s when Jaskier grazes his teeth against his hip, the dull points of his canines pressing against Eskel’s skin and gently tugging at the flesh that he gasps out, “ _Jaskier_ —” 

He can feel his own heartbeat in his throat, but it’s Jaskier’s that he can hear thumping like a hummingbird that is searing through his veins. Jaskier’s huffed laugh against his flushed skin turns into a shuddering exhale, but he doesn’t betray his nervousness when he breathlessly says, “ _Gorgeous_. This worked up all for me and still keeping it together.”

Jaskier has stopped touching himself, he notices, because the bard is now standing up. He still keeps hold of Eskel’s cock, but he makes sure to _slide_ his body up Eskel’s chest slowly. Jaskier looks him in the eye, letting his cock go to shove his own trousers down instead. Whatever Eskel is about to say is cut off by Jaskier’s fingers being shoved into his mouth. His own taste mixed with Jaskier’s is overwhelming on its own, but Jaskier’s other hand, hastily covered in his own slick wraps around Eskel’s cock makes him moan around the bard’s fingers. A few slow, tight jerks and Eskel comes with a muffled shout, hips pushing into Jaskier’s doublet over his stomach. The head of his cock drags over the fabric, making him whine softly as his release smears into it. 

“So perfect for me, witcher,” Jaskier says and continues slowly jerking him off. He loosens his fist on the pull back toward himself, tightening his fingers as he jerks down and working him into overstimulation with _ease_. “A well-behaved little wolf just for me…” Jaskier removes his fingers from Eskel’s mouth and drops a chaste kiss on his lips before letting him go and _finally_ giving Eskel a moment to catch his breath. 

Jaskier leans against the wall, but Eskel pulls himself together _remarkably_ quickly considering the scandal of nearly _begging_. Rather than be ashamed though, he is in _awe_ of Geralt’s bard, again making him wonder why his brother hadn’t made any move on him yet. His loss, of course, because Eskel now has the express privilege of pulling Jaskier’s stained doublet off, tossing it to the floor. Jaskier grabs the hem of his shirt, and Eskel helps him in taking that off too, leaving them in their boots and trousers. But Jaskier is already taking care of that for himself, ending up kicking everything off while Eskel rushes out of his own. 

The squeak that he gets out of Jaskier as he picks him up and presses over-warm skin to the cool stone of the wall makes Eskel chuckle into his neck. He’s still hard, tender flesh oversensitive, but he feels half-feral in his need to show Jaskier what exactly _he_ does to him. “So quick to call me well-behaved,” Eskel growls into his skin, voice gravelly. “You might regret that.”

Jaskier’s wrapped his legs around Eskel’s hips, arms around his neck with his fingernails digging into the back of his neck like one would scruff a pup. “And I say I will have you begging,” his voice wavers as he says it, betraying his current needs.

Eskel bares his teeth again, scraping the points against Jaskier’s pulse point and making him gasp. He sucks a shallow mark into the skin, enjoying how Jaskier trembles for it. With one arm he presses it under Jaskier’s ass against the wall, keeping him propped up more easily while Eskel’s lips move down his neck. Down to his collarbone, further down onto his breast where he nips again and sucks on the swell of it. When his teeth find the nipple, Jaskier moans loud enough that Eskel is sure the whole keep will hear it.

 _Good_.

The taste of his skin is no less intoxicating, sweat and arousal tinged, pulse thrumming under his touch. Eskel can hear Jaskier’s heart beating with his face on his chest, can smell how badly he wants him, he can _feel_ how wet he is with his cunt pressed messily against Eskel’s stomach. Jaskier takes in a rushed breath, sounding almost pained when he says, “ _Fuck me_.”

Eskel doesn’t have to be told twice, reaching between them and lining his cock up, pushing into Jaskier in one urgent thrust. The keening whine Jaskier makes _burns_ through Eskel, and he answers with a grunt and his hips grinding against his cunt. Reaching between them, he pushes his palm into Jaskier’s stomach, pressing down with a fierce sound when he feels his own cock settled inside him and filling him up _completely_. Jaskier too groans a deep, ravaged sounding noise, his hands finally coming up to scrabble at Eskel’s shoulders. One hand slips into Eskel’s hair and grips firmly, tugging back sharply. 

Their eyes meet, the look in Jaskier’s making fire race through his body; his hips buck against Jaskier’s, making them both moan, but still his bard continues to look at him until he tugs again on Eskel’s hair. His throat lay exposed between them, and Jaskier licks over his Adam's apple up to Eskel’s ear on the scarred side of his face and tugging on the flesh with his teeth. “I said _fuck me_ ,” Jaskier’s voice trembles at the end, as if words themselves are an overwhelming effort. “ _Move_.” Apparently Eskel _does_ need to be told twice, and who is he to deny his little serin anything? 

If Jaskier asked him to sled down the tallest peak of the Blue Mountains on his ass right now, he _might_ agree. 

Moving his hips, he grinds again before pulling back and bucking back in, starting up a jerky rhythm until he finds his pace a few moments later, brutal enough for a sharp shocked cry of pleasure to sound off next to his ear. Jaskier goes near boneless in his hold, head leaning forward more, panting under Eskel’s ear while his fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulder, tug his hair tighter with the other hand. The slap of skin is _obscene_ , but the filthy slide of his cock in and out of Jaskier is making him feel nearly barbaric. His hard, fast pace is interrupted again, hips stuttering and pounding into him harder when Jaskier’s teeth ghost over his neck. “ _Fuck_ , Jaskier…” 

The teeth disappear when Jaskier’s jaw slackens, Eskel choking on a rough sound when he feels the slow drip of saliva over his collarbone. Jaskier’s hands loosen and grab instead weakly for Eskel’s shoulders, palms sliding back until Eskel has rough fingernails digging into his back. The prickle of pain grounds him, makes him snap his hips forward fiercely while he snarls. He can feel Jaskier’s orgasm when it hits, his cunt clamping down while his pretty bird _sings_ , wailing loud enough that this time Eskel is _sure_ everyone will have heard it. He only gets louder as Eskel fucks Jaskier through it, moving erratically for how the bard is constricting around him but eventually slowing down to give him a moment to recuperate.

Eskel’s mouth moves again to Jaskier’s chest, taking a nipple in his mouth, making Jaskier squirm on his cock. Another drip of drool is his answer when Eskel grinds his hips to Jaskier’s, the sound of slick skin vulgar even to his own unashamed ears. Huffing a breath into the center of Jaskier’s chest, he presses his nose against the soft chest hair and inhales deeply, trying desperately to ward off his approaching frenzy. The last thing he wants to do is get too rough with a human and end up hurting him. Eskel ends up with his ear pressed over Jaskier’s heart, hearing the beat fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. 

Very suddenly, Jaskier’s hands both tangle surprisingly strong fingers into his hair, tugging his head back. Jaskier ends up puffing hot, wet air against his neck, the sultry lick up to Eskel’s pulse point and sucking down over it. The abrupt gnaw of teeth sinking into his skin while Jaskier’s fingernails dig into the back of his neck makes his breath stumble, again when the bite gets hard enough to start to sting. 

He makes a sound like he's been punched, but the surge of lust feels like _nothing_ in comparison to the roar of fire in his veins when Jaskier licks the wound and snarls out, “I said _fuck_ me, _wolf_.” In rapid succession, Eskel goes from rutting into Jaskier to pulling away from the wall so he can take the handful of steps to the bed so he can press the bard back into the sheets with a growl. Animalistic, even while Jaskier scrambles up onto his elbows to lean up against Eskel’s chest with a moan. “Fuck me full of your cum, _breed_ me.”

Their hips grind together before he pulls back and thrusts in callously; hard enough to feel _perfect_ with Jaskier’s cunt tight around him. His songbird sings, loud and urgent with his demands to be _fucked_. Eskel’s voice is thick with brute need when he says, “ _Filthy_ fucking mouth, this what you want?” Much harder than against the wall, slower while he puts more force into it. His hands find Jaskier’s thighs, pushing them further apart and up toward the mattress, nearly folding him in half. Jaskier’s elbows drop to the bed and makes him fall, but he puts his arms under Eskel’s in an effort to pull him closer. Again, Jaskier’s nails dig into Eskel’s flesh at his sides, making him pick up the pace as his orgasm claws its way down his spine.

One moment, Jaskier is bonelessly pinned beneath him, and the next, Eskel is being rolled over onto his back with the bard straddling him. His shoulders are slumped, and his eyes are closed as if that had taken more of an effort than expected—as if expending all of his strength for it. When Jaskier looks at him again, his pupils are blown wide, gorgeous and _wild_ looking. Jaskier rolls his hips and grinds down onto Eskel’s cock slow.

Fevered, sensitive flesh gets pressed down into by Jaskier’s palms, elbows locked to keep him upright on his chest. Eskel whines low in his throat when Jaskier’s hips stop moving completely. “What do you need, witcher?” Wordlessly, Eskel makes to grab for Jaskier's hips, but they're intercepted by his gorgeous little bird grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. He moans his complaint, but Jaskier is looking at him expectantly, squeezing Eskel’s sides with his calves while he gently rocks down against him again. The sensation borders on _too much_ while still not enough, it makes him rock his hips up to which Jaskier makes a disappointed, breathy sound. “Mm, _no_ , that’s not how you ask for what you want, dear heart.”

The disjointed, broken sound of frustration Eskel makes when Jaskier slides completely off his cock and sits forward onto his stomach is one he _knows_ he will not live down. Jaskier pouts at him as he squeezes his knees around Eskel’s torso while hunching over him. The words die in his throat, a pathetic rush of air taking their place when Jaskier grinds down and smears his slick into his skin. Only when the bard moves forward to sit on his pecs does he realize that he’s going to smell like Jaskier for _days_.

“Poor wolf, so helpless for me,” Jaskier looks at him with those same dark eyes, lips parted while he pants quietly. “If you won’t speak, I’ll put your mouth to better use.” 

With Jaskier’s cunt so close to his face, his throat feels _dry_ , parched all at once and feeling a deep desperation to taste him. This close, he can _smell_ their coupling, can smell the musk of arousal so thoroughly that his whole body _suffers_ for it. His cock aches where it rests against his thigh, dark and straining, and from how genuinely lightheaded Eskel feels, he is _confident_ that what’s left of his blood has all rushed south. After moments that could easily pass for an eternity, Jaskier finally moves forward to Eskel’s mouth and they _both_ groan. 

Jaskier has let his hands go in favor of leaning back on his own, supporting himself on the hard muscle of Eskel’s stomach. At this angle, he can see Jaskier’s body stretching up above him while his tongue ends up buried in his cunt. He can taste himself layered with Jaskier’s slick, helplessly moaning as he licks up into him. Jaskier tastes… _perfect_. The tang of sweat and the slightly salty acidity sitting on his tongue like he would appreciate a good dark Redanian wine. Eskel doesn’t let himself linger faux-drunkenly too long on the taste, swiping his tongue broadly up between Jaskier’s folds, _feeling_ the shiver that shakes Jaskier down to where his fingernails have clawed into Eskel’s stomach. 

“ _Good wolf_ ,” the praise ends on a whine when Eskel’s tongue rubs ruthlessly over Jaskier’s clit; at the same time, his hands finally wind around his songbird’s thighs, gripping tightly but not keeping Jaskier in place. The abruptness of it coincides with one of Jaskier’s hands shooting out to grab Eskel by the hair, stilling the movement of his head while he crushes his hips down and cries a frantic sound toward the ceiling. “ _Don’t move_.”

His tongue lays flat out for Jaskier to grind down against, and one look upward puts his handsome canary on an absurdly depraved display that has Eskel rumbling deep in his chest, loud in his throat even to his own sensitive ears. Jaskier takes his pleasure while Eskel lays there powerless to do anything else. Jaksier’s fingers tighten in his hair, his chest heaves while he warbles nonsense. When his release hits him, it’s with a gasp of Eskel’s name, slick coating his tongue for one divine moment before Jaskier is sitting back onto his chest. 

He can feel Jaskier’s wetness on his chin, but he is distracted by him moving back to straddle his hips. Right over his cock, his folds resting on either side of the shaft and making Eskel _howl_ when he grinds his hips against the over-sensitive flesh. A profound, anguished cry that makes his hips buck up involuntarily before the words are tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them, “ _Jaskier, please_.”

The grin on Jaskier’s face melts off the moment he lifts himself up on shaky legs and lines Eskel’s cock up, sinking back down onto the length with a shuddering moan. “ _Fuck me_ ,” a grunted demand that makes Eskel _snap_.

He feels more monster than man, flipping them once again so Jaskier is flat on his back. His hands ruthlessly pin Jaskier’s legs to the bed, hard enough that his hands will leave bruises. The snap of his hips is bordering _savage_ , snarling as he fucks himself toward release. Animalistic in his desire to mark up the little bird when he bends down to bite Jaskier’s throat, his shoulder, anywhere his teeth can reach. Sucking angry marks into his skin that _definitely_ will leave marks for a long while, a claim he is staking on tender flesh. He doesn’t draw blood, he doesn’t _hurt_ Jaskier if his songbird chirping for more is anything to judge by. 

When Jaskier cums again around his cock, his own orgasm hits him with an intensity that makes his hips jerk forward hard against Jaskier’s, burying his cock _deep_ and emptying himself with a guttural, broken yell. Distantly, he registers Jaskier’s hands pulling him down into a bawdy kiss that makes Eskel _shake_ as he collapses atop him. He runs out of air fast, but Jaskier keeps him as his thrall for far longer. Until Eskel is heaving for breath, forcibly moving away and resting his head on Jaskier’s chest. 

The room has heated up enough along with their body temperatures that it is almost _unbearable_ , sweaty skin pressing together almost obnoxiously. Jaskier speaks up first, rubbing Eskel’s shoulders as he pants out, “Told you I’d get you to beg.”

Eskel snorts, deciding he’d rather _not_ crush Jaskier under his weight as he pulls out and rolls onto his back next to him. “ _One_ please isn’t begging, little lark.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Jaskier says, deciding that the sweatiness isn’t so unpleasant, turning onto his side even as semen leaks from his cunt. He tosses one leg over Eskel’s thigh which only serves to spread their fluids over his skin. “You’ll be begging for me every night before winter is over, gonna use your mouth instead.”

It is a promise, Eskel knows that. One that he is eager for, enough that he doesn’t care if Jaskier gets too cocky when he says, “If it gets you warming my bed every single night, you’ll have to teach me to sing just as pretty as you do, bard.”

The contented scent of bliss is sweet on his nose, and Eskel buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair to breathe it in deeply. _Nobody_ in the history of his bedmates has ever been so… relaxed around Eskel. His face, his mutant body littered with scars, being a witcher—all things that turn people off the minute his coin’s time expires. 

This is what Jaskier is offering, a comfortable place to rest his head without fear of judgement. Affection that is genuine, desire that runs as deep as the trust Jaskier had put in him. They have been getting along together so very well for the past week they have been in acquaintance that Eskel genuinely wants to pursue Jaskier. As anything more than a bedmate would be completely foolish, but he will take what he can get. 

_Really_ , their companionship has been easy Eskel tells him about his non-embarrassing hunts in the evenings, and Jaskier has been taking notes about them for his planned epics. Something about the good deeds of witchers or some such tale that may put more coin in his pockets while on the Path. And this is what his brother has had for _years_ , the devotion of his own personal barker that has gone unreciprocated for just as long.

Jaskier has been placing his loyalty in a _fool_ , a fool that mysteriously disappears from the keep for two entire days before he shows his face again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIGGEST thanks to [HazelCosmos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelcosmos) for the beta on this!!! i owe u my life and a lot of writing. ALSO this was written specifically in response to [dundee998](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dundee998) giving me the idea, thanks for nothing i love u!!! i literally spent 9 thousand words of this trying to get to the last 1k, so get ready for jaskier to become full gay
> 
> IMPORTANT: there are specific (gay) meanings to the flowers mentioned because i bought a book on flower symbolism and cannot be fucking stopped anymore :')
> 
> purple orchid: i respect your uniqueness, strengthen desire, find new paths, royalty, respect, admiration  
> wedding bush: commitment, dedication, life purpose, join me, will you marry me?  
> edelweiss: dedication, bravery, new direction, life purpose, positive change, education, i am only dedicated to you

In the time immediately after his extremely …thorough romp with Eskel, Jaskier’s head feels as if it is full of bees. Swarming through his brain and down his spine, dispersing into his chest and stomach and down to his very toes, even. The reverberation of his pleasure lingers for much longer than his body seems to be prepared for as he dozes, a bone deep contentment keeping him settled peacefully within the witcher’s grasp. At some point, Eskel had gotten up to find something to clean them up with as best as he could, which Jaskier desperately tries to remember he will have to thank him for. The thought is forgotten, Jaskier instead sluggishly sinking under the cover of pleasant dreams where he does not have to immediately think about the consequences of his actions.

The first time he wakes up, he is made aware of the deep, pleasant ache within his body. The second thing Jaskier feels is the body he is pressed against—quite fully, if he were to say so himself. Keeping his eyes closed, he focuses on the slow rise and fall of his bed companion’s chest, so much slower than his own, and he tries his best to slow down his breathing to match it. He ends up slipping back into sleep, draped across Eskel like an especially pliant pelt of fur. 

Under the cover of an early-morning slumber, Jaskier’s dreams are strange.

There is a bouquet made up of purple orchids, long, fuzzy stems of edelweiss, and wedding bush sprigs. Much as in the waking world, Jaskier had been slumbering, though in this vision his sleep was under a gentle springtime sun atop a small hill next to an under-traveled road. The clutches of winter have faded, leaving puffy clouds to roam the skies and air that thaws with the frosts. A gentle wind blows, invigorating him with a tranquil energy, something that feels like _change_. 

Taking a deep breath, the air is cold in his lungs, but his body is filled with warmth as he lays down under the mid-morning sun. He is waiting for someone important to him, but there is no indication as to who it is for his blank head. There are many manifestations of people who are of importance to him, but flitting in and out on the road that he is sitting near to, none ever quite reaching him. Not until he hears the clopping of hooves on rocky soil. The sound is soft, but seeing the dark mare with a tall figure sitting atop it makes Jaskier smile so wide it nearly hurts. His heartbeat picks up, frozen in place while he suffers for his anticipation.

At his side is the bouquet, a symbolic gesture of commitment. He respects the recipient’s uniqueness, holding a deep desire to renew his dedication. Or perhaps this is a shift, a conversion of sanctification, accepting another idol into his heart to cherish. Jaskier will give his muse the bouquet, and he will sing his graces to the sky so that they may be absorbed in the clouds, to be rained down upon every corner of the continent. 

Jaskier sits up, grabbing the bouquet and taking off jogging toward his hooded figure that waves at him in greeting, speeding up his trot. Jaskier cannot distinguish any features, but they come to a stop together soon enough. The rider dismounts, sweeping Jaskier into a kiss that makes him feel _weak_. To be full of love, to feel enamored and _safe_ … it is a new feeling. His fingers come to rest on the man’s cheek, tracing lines while his other arm wraps around a thick neck. Jaskier is holding the bouquet tightly in his grip, his companion murmuring in a rich tone that fades before he can process what is being said.

A saccharine vision that melts when he starts to wake up, instead with his nose pressed into skin. The satisfying ache is still just as deep even with his muscles having had a chance to rest during the night. There is an arm slung under his back, one of his legs slipped comfortably between another set. The even pattern of his breathing is broken for the inhale that goes deeper, shifting perceptibly as he tries to stretch in place. Above him, there is a deep, quiet chuckle, which is when Jaskier notices the wet spot of drool beneath where the corner of his mouth rests. 

With a muffled ‘ _hmnn_ ’, Jaskier reaches between them and wipes the wet spot off with his hand, then his own mouth. Unfortunately, his aim while his eyes are closed is _terrible_ , and he still ends up smearing the mess around. He receives a gentle shake, the palm curled forward on his waist pressing into his side. Another follows moments later, this time with a soft call of, “Jaskier.” The furs shift with the next movement, the chill of the air outside their cocoon of warmth seeping in. He clings tighter, prompting another shake, and then a fourth that makes the fur over him slip down his shoulder. “I need to get up, songbird.”

 _Eskel_ ; Jaskier remembers the night before in varying degrees of satisfaction, but he doesn’t say anything, instead reaching up to pull the covering back over his shoulder while his leg tightens it's hold on Eskel’s. 

“You can stay in bed as long as you want, but I have to get up, Jaskier.”

Groaning again, he finally opens his eyes, adjusting easily to the dim lighting of the room. The fire had died out at some point in the night, but the thick curtain on the window remained mostly closed as well. Yawning, he asks, “What time is it?”

“Time for me to get moving,” Eskel says, again pulling from Jaskier’s grasp on him. “I'm supposed to go hunt with Vesemir today down by the lake, I’ll never hear the end of it if I’m late.”

“Mm, _fine_ , if you must,” Jaskier says, letting Eskel go. “When will you be back?”

“In time for dinner if we get a headstart on dawn,” Eskel says, already getting out the other side of the bed. There is a _horrible_ rush of cold air before the furs are tucked securely around Jaskier. A poor substitute for his witcher furnace that makes him feel huffy and unhappy, to which Eskel seems to sense. “I’ll bring you some breakfast before I head out,” is punctuated with him smoothing Jaskier’s hair down.

Humming in acknowledgement is the most Jaskier can do while he rolls into where Eskel has gotten up from, seeking out that heat in vain. He can hear him chuckle again before the sounds of him moving around the room start to float to him. To Jaskier’s immense delight, Eskel places a few more logs on the fire and lights it back up, the soft crackling of wood catching being his indication. 

There are some more ambient sounds of Eskel moving around the room and getting dressed, but Jaskier is already relaxing down into the mattress. It’s a shame he _is_ so exhausted by the previous night, or he might have tried to distract Eskel and get him to stay in bed. The door opens and closes, and it doesn't open again until a while later.

The dip of the bed wakes Jaskier from his drifting, prompting him to turn to Eskel and give him a questioning look. He doesn't have to wait long for an answer, seeing the tiredness on his face. “Change of plans, Vesemir… sent Geralt out to hunt on his own, I’ll be patching up some holes in the outside walls with Lambert.” They both pause in acknowledgement of Geralt, but Eskel quickly moves on. “I brought you some breakfast, feel free to stay as long as you like.”

“I need a proper bath,” Jaskier says, sitting up more fully so he can rest against the headboard of the bed, looking over at the meal Eskel has brought him and placed upon the table at the side of the bed. Now that the fire has gotten a chance to warm up the room, the chill is kept mostly at bay. The edge of the furs slip down into his lap, which he _knows_ is distracting, hardly apologetic when Eskel’s eyes drift from his tits back up to his eyes when he continues, “The washtub off the kitchen is just _not_ doing it for me.”

Eskel seems to consider that for a moment, tapering off his thoughts with a sigh. “He didn’t show you the springs.” A statement of fact that makes Jaskier perk up.

“What do you _mean_ he didn’t show me the springs. If you’ve had a secret hot spring this _entire_ time I’m going to show him something to _really_ make him want to run and hide from me.” He knows Geralt has been avoiding him this whole week, and he knows _Eskel_ knows Geralt has been avoiding him all week. For all Geralt is abrasive, Jaskier _knows_ his moods of self-denial. Having known him so long is why Jaskier recognizes what it looks like—he has spent such a long time with Geralt as a traveling companion to learn these things, yes, but Jaskier has no doubt that Eskel knows the man far better than himself. 

It is still not what he wants to think about immediately upon waking for the day, so he tucks his worry about consequences away for later. Eskel, too, seems to want to forget this for now, though not without a shake of his head and a quiet laugh for his well justified anger. “Well, I will have to show you then. It’ll have to be after dinner though, gonna be patching things up until dusk, lots of holes we gotta fill that we’ve been ignoring for a couple of years.”

“I know a thing or two about holes needing filling that have been ignored for a _long_ time,” Jaskier says without missing a beat, “As long as you’re not too tired to fill mine after, wolf.” Utterly shameless, feeling downright _powerful_ for the heated, ardent stare Eskel gives him.

Eskel gives him another once over before leaning in, nipping at his bottom lip and drawing him into a kiss that makes Jaskier hum appreciatively; their tongues sliding together is a promise for later of just how much energy Eskel has. He’s glad to be sitting up in bed, because otherwise his weak knees would have been a problem for them both. “I’ll see you at dinner,” Eskel says, voice husky when he pulls away. The tone is enough for the shock of desire to sink into Jaskier, pushing him to give Eskel something to think about until then. 

He tugs him in with a hand on the back of his neck, scraping his fingernails through the fine hair there. Jaskier licks his lips first, dragging Eskel into a kiss that is just wet enough to make his witcher moan quietly against him. His other hand traces Eskel’s jaw while Jaskier shoves his tongue back into his mouth, licking the roof of his mouth and down to just behind his top teeth before retreating. Another peck is placed upon Eskel’s lips, and Jaskier says, “Better hurry up then.”

A dazed witcher leaves Jaskier to his own devices. Devices which include Jaskier leisurely eating his breakfast before it gets too cold. Porridge sweetened with honey, a cut of cured meat, a segment of soft goat cheese, and a crusty piece of bread with cranberry preserves smeared on top; _that_ makes him feel soft. On his third day here, Jaskier realized that he would not get a chance to taste the tart berry this year during the winter months. Since he usually wintered in warmer climates where the snow wasn’t nearly as immobilizing, the fruit would be imported from the bogs further south. Eskel had promptly let Jaskier know about how Vesemir came up the mountain last week after a supply run in the village at the foot with a bushel of cranberries amongst his purchases.

Enough to spare for a jar of preserves, which Vesemir had made the next day for him, and which he has been enjoying with breakfast since. Sparingly, of course, since he wants it to last for when the snows truly start settling in. It is still technically autumn, the weather cooperating enough that work can be done around the outside of the keep’s inner walls where the snow on the ground hasn’t piled yet. The days are getting uglier, quicker, and soon they will all be holed up until the spring comes to thaw them out.

Which will mean having to face Geralt after this, something that seems an _impossible_ task. But, his friend has made it quite clear that running away from whatever is going on between them is his solution, and Jaskier will not keep sitting around waiting for Geralt to take another decade to come to terms with his emotions, glad as he would be if he _did_. Not when Eskel has been his outrageously dashing savior every evening when Geralt has either fled after dinner or left Jaskier to strum his lute by the hearth in the library. It’s not _his_ fault that Eskel would sit with him, talking with him and keeping his glass of spirits full. Whether out of courtesy as a host or because he genuinely appreciates his presence enough to make sure he is comfortable remains to be seen. 

He is grateful nonetheless for an immediately friendly presence to indulge his conversations and his incessant flourishing. Lambert, too, to an extent, was tolerating him seemingly better than Geralt. And Vesemir has also praised his usefulness in helping do his fair share of work. Of course, wintering with witchers is much different than with humans, but having only known Geralt’s sour disposition, Jaskier is surprised that there are warm personalities behind the walls of this crumbling fortress. 

Jaskier spends the rest of his morning idly picking at what he does not eat at first. Then he retrieves his lute to set about re-stringing the bottom string of it as he had _intended_ to do the previous night. Not that he regrets his activities, but his beloved lute gets the care and attention she deserves. A proper tuning, making sure the pegs are twisted perfectly; not too loose, no excess of string to cause sound distortions. 

After a short nap, Jaskier deigns it late enough that it would be past rude not to show his face and ask Vesemir if he had any tasks to help with—it has _nothing_ to do with the fact that the fire has burned down again with no spare logs to stoke it. His own doublet is stained with Eskel’s cum, something he hadn't thought about in the moment that he is regretting now. However, the contrition fades just as quickly when he picks through Eskel’s shirts to find one to wear instead. It does not _matter_ that he is drowning in the maroon fabric, the ends gets tucked into his trousers, and he makes a brief stop to his room to drop off his lute and stained doublet to deal with later. 

The moment he makes it down to the kitchen, he finds Vesemir preparing himself what is most likely a quick lunch based on the daylight outside. His head tilts in Jaskier’s direction, amused when he asks, “Finally decided to wake up?” 

Jaskier sees it as the cheeky accusation it is, but still flushes nonetheless. “I’ve _been_ awake, I’ll have you know. I was doing some maintenance on my lute from the comfort of bed.” He distinctly remembers a filthy little line of dirty talk that had come true about everyone being able to smell what they had been up to, no doubt that is exactly what Vesemir is scenting on the air.

“Hmm,” Vesemir makes the classic witcher noise of a hundred meanings. “If you’re feeling up to it after keeping everyone awake last night, I could use some help re-organizing the pantry for the game Geralt is bringing back from his hunt. Things got mixed up from my last supply run, Lambert put everything in the wrong places.” 

“I can think of no better way to spend my afternoon if you would rather go take a nap. I can handle it,” Jaskier says while grabbing for a piece of the fruit Vesemir had cut up for himself. He gets a tap on the knuckles with the broad side of the kitchen knife when he attempts another piece, making him smile as he pops his apple chunk into his mouth.

“And then you will help with dinner since you so graciously volunteered, little bird,” Vesemir says and sits down with his plate of lunch. 

“Did I? I suppose I did.”

The next few hours are actually rather soothing, and he learns a few things about ingredient storage, which things needed to be in the separate cold storage versus what could stay closer to the kitchen to keep in the drier air. They make enough space for the anticipated stock of meat that would have to be prepared for preservation. When they are done, Jaskier helps with chopping vegetables for dinner, asking Vesemir questions about his methods for their meal. He is _sure_ that his reputation for being terrible at cooking has somehow preceded himself, considering Vesemir doesn’t let him do much more than that. Only when the large pot is simmering and needs little attention is he put at the helm of the hearth to keep an eye on it.

His culinary stay at Kaer Morhen so far has been delicious, and privately he reasons it would do well to learn more about herbs and seasonings that will make his travels taste much less… bland. Usually Geralt would find an animal, kill it, strip it of useful parts, and then cook the meat over an open flame. Having enough to eat after relentless walking is of course the opposite of _terrible_ , anything welcome to help replenish his energy, but maybe carrying some spice around is not such a bad idea.

Dinner is nearly ready when he hears Lambert’s voice drift toward them, Eskel’s following closely after that. Jaskier is stirring a pot of stew gently, keeping his attention on it while Vesemir had been seeing to other parts of their meal. There is a pause in movement, Lambert says, “ _Gross_ ,” and Vesemir shows up next to Jaskier chuckling quietly.

When he turns around, Eskel is standing near the table, staring at him as if frozen mid-movement, to which Jaskier gives him a wink. “You boys fix up the walls?”

“Should be done with them in a few days,” Lambert grumbles, pointedly glancing away from everyone and looking like a grumpy little feline.

“Once Geralt is back, he’ll be helping you two,” Vesemir says as he starts setting food down in the center of the table. “Should be done before the heavy snows start falling in a few days.” Jaskier remembers Vesemir had been talking about it while they had worked, that he could feel the storm coming over the mountain range to the north. Once the precipitation rolled over the peak, their first blizzard will hit. He feels it in his knees, or something to that effect.

Eskel seems then to shake himself from his stupor, walking forward finally to stand next to Jaskier with his arm resting against the stone of the hearth. “Who gave you permission to wear my shirt?”

“Me, since you ruined mine,” Jaskier says immediately, deigning the consistency of the stew to finally be perfect. He looks around for a moment before finding what he is looking for, grabbing the kitchen towel and making to take the hanging pot handle off of the hook. Eskel beats him to it, and Jaskier huffs in his direction. “I _had_ it.”

“I’m sure you did,” Eskel says, putting the cast iron pot onto the table between everyone. “But now it’s already on the table after you worked hard on it.” Such a simple compliment, but it makes him feel like he has been actively useful. Like he is not a burden to be looked after, that his presence here helping with the meal truly is a job well done.

“As if you haven’t been outside hefting stones to fix the walls,” Jaskier still mutters as he does in fact make to sit down next to Eskel, but not without hitting him on the back of the head with his towel. If he’s honest, his feet _do_ hurt a bit more than he expected. Not that he’s not used to following Geralt around on foot usually, but standing in one spot with a much more limited range of motion apparently does not make for feeling comfortable. Finally sitting is a relief, close enough to Eskel to feel the leftover chill clinging to his clothing from being outside all day. 

“A task that doesn’t require as much energy or effort as you think,” Eskel says, going so far as to be a gentleman and filling Jaskier’s bowl for him, and then Vesemir, Lambert, and finally himself.

It would be a statement free of salacious intent if Jaskier had not been thinking of Eskel’s kiss this morning, and his own in response. He has been sore all day thanks to their tumble into bed the previous night, and the prospect of a soak with Eskel is all that is keeping him from what would have been his usual complaints after too much strenuous work. “Oh, so you aren't too tired to show me the spring?” Deliberately knocking his knee into Eskel’s, sure that there is nothing subtle about any of it.

Lambert groans from behind his mug of ale, setting it down roughly and pointing between the two of them. “You two can wait until after I finish to fuck in there, been waiting all damn day for this.”

Huffing a laugh, Jaskier brings his hands over his own heart and says, “I’m hurt, I would never want to offend your delicate, maidenly sensibilities with debauchery.”

“ _Maidenly_?” Lambert plays along, acting visibly taken aback by the taunt.

Eskel snorts next to him. “I’ve seen you in a dress, Lambert. You do make a fair maiden—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Jaskier interrupts, hands out for embellishment. “Wait wait wait, _I_ want to see you in a dress. Do we have any dresses here at Kaer Morhen? Can I dress you up?”

To that, Lamber looks _appalled_. Embarrassed? “Absolutely _not_.” 

“I can't just be teased with a tale of you in a dress and not want you to follow through with donning one again for my personal pleasure,” Jaskier says. “I’ll even wear one with you—Lambert I am _so_ serious.”

Serious enough to lean across the table, standing up to lean _more_ toward his grumpy witcher friend in the making. Eskel reaches up to tug on the sleeve of his stolen shirt, prompting him to sit back down; he’s grinning though, when Jaskier looks at him. “We might still have some of Yennefer’s old dresses up in the guest room in the tower from the last time she was here.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier perks up. She would perhaps flay him alive for touching her things, and for potentially shredding them since he's not exactly the daintiest of fellows. “You’ll have to show me later so I can raid her clothing and pick some things out for us.” Consequences be damned if she ever found out.

Lambert makes a pained sound across the table, pointedly looking away when he says, “You’re forgetting the part where I _ain’t_ doing it.”

“We’ll play cards for it,” Jaskier says, full well knowing from the previous nights staying up with everyone that his own skill at Gwent is not as good as Lambert’s. “Best three out of five rounds?” He is nothing if not determined.

“Drop it, buttercup.” Lambert huffs, frustrated now as he becomes the center of attention. “ _No_.”

Giving him a long look, Jaskier sighs, much more interested in eating his dinner anyway so he can go take a bath. “Fine, I’ll drop it for now, but this isn't the last you'll hear of it.” It is a threat as much as it is a jest—Jaskier genuinely wants to see Lambert dressed up, but not if it will be a discomfort to him. The battle is lost for now, but he will continue to pester him. Later.

Their meal is delicious, _of course_ it is delicious, Jaskier had made it. With Vesemir’s help entirely, telling him exactly what to do, but the effort is perhaps a _quarter_ his own. He does spare a thought for Geralt, but the old wolf had explained earlier that his friend would indeed most likely be blowing off steam and sulking for another day before he would come back with Roach and Scorpion both carrying the spoils of his hunt. That suited him just fine, because at least it would give Jaskier another night to put off the inevitable and worry about it instead tomorrow.

Once they are all finished eating, Eskel is the one that gathers the dishes before Jaskier gets a chance, heading over to the dishes bin to put them in the warmed water to soak. Which just _isn’t_ right, Jaskier saying so when he tries in vain to move Eskel. “You were building walls all day, you're not doing dishes.” His hands meet a solid, immovable form, and Eskel looks at him, eyebrow quirked.

“It’s my turn—”

“It’s your turn when you don't spend the day hauling heavy stones and mixing mucilage.” And to prove his point, Jaskier again pushes on Eskel’s arm, this time successfully getting him to take a step back for him to squeeze himself into the space that's left. “So get out of my way.” There is no heat behind it, but Jaskier _is_ serious. Witchers do so much all the time with almost no return, the _least_ he can do is the dinner dishes. 

“For what it’s worth, you might want to save some of that energy,” Eskel says, sticking close and putting his hands on Jaskier’s hips.

 _Oh_.

Jaskier leans back into Eskel and looks up at him, smirking at him. After spending all day simmering right alongside the stew, he is _quite_ ready for a sequel to last night. And of course a bath, in whichever order. “I have plenty of energy, _wolf_.” Eskel’s hands squeeze his hips, which does nothing to help how irresponsibly horny Jaskier gets. He presses his legs together, breath stuttering quietly when Eskel rocks against him, but that doesn’t trip his words up. “Just wait until I get you in the spring.”

Lambert makes a retching sound behind them, and Jaskier can hear him pushing away from the table so he can leave. “You two are fuckin’ disgusting, so _I_ am getting a head start on getting the fuck outta here so I can have a fuckin’ moment of peace.”

Which is _fair_ ; Jaskier remembers that his scent is no secret, but there is little reason to be embarrassed. Besides, nothing could have been more embarrassing than Vesemir telling him earlier that his sexual activities with Eskel is their choice to make together, but for the Gods’ sake, keep the noise _down_. Jaskier had almost dropped a glass jar of pickled vegetables while they had been in the middle of reorganizing the pantry, so now that that talk had been had, it’s hard to care about controlling something he _actually_ cannot.

Lambert has left, and Vesemir departs to read elsewhere, leaving the two of them alone with soaking dishes. Eskel is the first to break the lull they find themselves in, wrapping his arms fully around Jaskier’s waist and pushing his nose against his neck, inhaling deeply. Knowing now what Eskel is getting from this, that he is being _scented_ … Jaskier sighs and presses back against where he can feel Eskel’s cock through the layers of clothing between them. “Thought about you all day, songbird,” voice rough, punctuated by another deep huff against Jaskier’s skin.

“Tell me.” One of his hands presses down atop where one of Eskel’s have come to rest over his side, baring his neck to give Eskel easier access to him. “What did you think about?”

“That filthy mouth of yours…” husky words that taper off when Eskel nips his skin with pointed canines. “Bawdy as they come, perfect on my cock. Who taught you to speak like that?”

“As if I needed someone to teach me how to get a man on his knees for me,” Jaskier says, turning around in Eskel’s hold so they’re facing one another. “I can get you on your knees right here, right now.”

Jaskier ends up very suddenly crowded against the edge of a high table next to where they’re standing, Eskel lifting him up onto it within the space of a breath; it gets stolen anyway by the hunger he’s subjected to when lips press against his own. Eskel kisses him brutally, Jaskier doing his best to not already fall to pieces. The witcher makes it _hard_ to keep a cool head around him, but Jaskier is making good on his threat. He tugs on the front of Eskel’s trousers, fingers having curled inside the waist while he gets a good grip on the lacing. 

Eskel grunts when Jaskier pulls their hips together, spreading his legs wider for Eskel to fit between them. He rocks his hips off the table, grinding one slow movement against him. “I’ve been thinking of your mouth all day and how good it made me feel last night,” Jaskier says, pausing to grab Eskel by the shirt with his other hand, licking at his neck. “Gonna put that mouth of yours to use all winter.” Turning his words from last night back on him again.

His reward is a puff of breath falling hot against his ear; Jaskier feels the heat coiling tight in his belly, wondering if Eskel would shut him up and fuck him instead of getting to his knees. As it is, a look to the side makes him see that Eskel is leaning on his hands planted either side of Jaskier’s thighs. Either way, Jaskier is sure this will end with him getting fucked out, whether it’s now or later is of no consequence. 

…Though, he _does_ want to see Eskel on his knees in front of him. Pushing his luck is his specialty, after all.

“So sweet for me last night, eating my cunt like a last meal, witcher. Letting me ride your tongue like it was your only purpose. I bet you want another taste, don’t you?” Grinding his hips against Eskel’s again, he keeps a firm hold on his clothing. “Your knees are shaking, you want to get down on the floor and rip through my pants to get to me. You’d shove your nose against my cunt so you can smell yourself too, I bet. Get yourself nice and riled up and howling to eat me out.”

Eskel groans into Jaskier’s neck, moving his hands to grab Jaskier’s hips to tug them more firmly together. “Saw you in my shirt and wanted to fuck you, wanted t’bend you over the table and have you for _dinner_ ,” the end is growled out, making Jaskier’s traitorous body shiver with anticipation.

“So perfect for me, handsome wolf,” he says a bit breathlessly when Eskel’s lips press insistently against his neck, but he goes no further. “Waiting until I give permission, all bark and no bite. I’ll get you begging for me again like you did last night—” 

Jaskier’s voice breaks when Eskel bites down on his neck over a spot that’s already sore from the previous night. The flesh is soothed by his tongue quick after, but Eskel hums deep in his chest and says, “One ‘please’ isn’t begging.”

“Could have fooled me.” Jaskier leans back on his hands, keeping himself up when Eskel’s face pushes down further, nosing at his chest from where the stolen shirt’s laces hang open. “Like music to my ears.” If he were to say so himself, Jaskier is an _expert_ with music, though he is quite sure that Eskel is not going to want to hear his joke while snuffling into his chest as a wild wolf would.

“We’ll see who’s begging,” Eskel says, voice muffled into fabric as he takes hold of Jaskier’s hips and drags them to the very edge of the table, sinking down further until he’s on his knees. Which, well, that _does_ prove his point. It’s a shame that it was proved away from the direction of Jaskier having power over the witcher, because the moment Eskel noses at his cunt through his breeches, Jaskier might _lose it_.

Sucking in a breath, Jaskier’s arms wobble enough that he has to lock his elbows so he doesn’t fall backward. For all of his talk just moments ago, previous lovers had never been so _fervent_ about their attentions, and generally he was already unclothed. He spreads his legs more to give Eskel some room, trying to keep his voice even as he says, “G _oo_ d boy.”

Another deep inhale against Jaskier’s groin is his answer, a shaky breath on the exhale that makes him moan. The tongue pushing up against the fabric is somehow more surprising, overshadowed again by Eskel moaning quietly against him. The tongue retreats, and Jaskier takes a jittery breath, all sorts of butterflies rattling around behind his ribs and in his lungs. The air is punched from him again, Eskel’s tongue pushing back against his cunt more insistently, saliva soaking into the fabric.

‘ _Fuuuck_ …’ tapers off into a moan; Eskel’s hands move to Jaskier’s thighs, grabbing handfuls of them through his trousers and pinning his legs down onto the surface of the table. That makes Jaskier’s arms quiver again until he has no choice but to sink down to his elbows. Eskel licks him roughly, pushing enough saliva against him that it doesn’t take long for that dampness to saturate his clothing completely. Combined with how wet Jaskier is, the sensation is almost paralyzing. Overwhelming in a very distinct way that he can’t pin down.

Eskel moans against him again, louder this time, taking a moment to nose at the damp patch. Inhaling hard again like a beast, chest rumbling with a low growl, loud enough for Jaskier to hear it over his own thudding heartbeat. The contact is not _enough_ , and it is also _everything_. His hips push out toward Eskel’s face, but Jaskier keeps his mouth firmly shut so he doesn’t ask for more like he wants to. 

No, he wants to win this game again, the same one they had played last night in bed with Jaskier’s cunt dripping all over Eskel’s cock. That single ‘please’ might have been the sweetest sound Jaskier has ever had the pleasure of hearing, bar nearly none. “You want to eat me out so badly, don’t you, _w-wolf_ ,” he starts, interrupting himself with a gasp when he feels Eskel’s teeth scrape across the front of his trousers, dragging down just hard enough for the skin underneath to tingle with muted pain. 

Jaskier sits up as best as he can, taking a deep breath as he does so, steeling himself. Trying to at least, near fruitlessly, but he does end up getting a hand on one of Eskel’s where it’s gripping his thigh. His hold loosens, _then_ allowing for Jaskier to right himself, sitting up more fully even as Eskel’s tongue soaks his trousers with more saliva. It is truly an achievement when he scoots closer to the edge of the table, hunched over Eskel’s head and holding the back of it in place. “Like I said, _no_ bite.” 

Crowding into the witcher’s face, Jaskier rocks his hips slowly forward while looking right into Eskel’s eyes, keeping his head tilted up at the perfect angle. “Fucking _gorgeous_ , could keep you here like this for hours.” He feels a distinct type of power settling deep enough into his bones to energize him, squeezing his thighs around Eskel’s head as a _threat_. “Would you do that for me? Kneel here for hours while I sit here waiting for you to ask for a taste of my cunt?” If I asked you to lick me _just like this_ until I cum, would you? If I ask you to keep your hands to yourself, will you be a good boy for me?”

The sound Eskel makes is smothered against Jaskier’s damp trousers, but he can see the witcher’s eyes flicker, softening before fortifying again. Staring back as a challenge, Jaskier tries not to give in to the promise of getting ravaged the second he backs down. He wants that _very_ badly, in fact. Walking around today sore and sated, feeling the bruises Eskel had left on him as he had done his work with Vesemir. Whenever his hip would bump into a barrel or a crate, the spots were tender in the perfect way that kept the night on his mind the whole time. Vaguely horny for hours, and knowing _now_ that everyone around him could smell it, it made sense that Vesemir was giving him ambiguously agitated looks when he allowed his head to wander too far.

“You wanna taste me, but I think you wanna _claim_ me, pretty wolf.” Jaskier rolls his hips slowly against Eskel’s mouth again, noting how his eyes immediately avert themselves. _That_ will not do; Jaskier’s left hand slips from the back of Eskel’s head, tracing the scarred flesh of his face with his fingertips before cupping the sensitive flesh. Rubbing his thumb over Eskel’s cheek, he can _feel_ the witcher relax just barely, but it’s enough to know it matters. However devastatingly _hot_ this is, he knows that it is a _huge_ show of trust in very little time to let him touch him so intimately. 

Apart from his brooding prince, Jaskier has never seen someone with such stunning eyes. If he were an inferior bard, one such as the damned court jester with a promotion Valdo Marx, he may use sickeningly over-poetic words for the look of them. However, he is _Jaskier_ , most famous bard in the world, surely, and with a mastery of language in all of their descriptive forms. Eskel’s eyes are _vast_. The depth of emotion in them seems inexhaustibly deeper the longer Jaskier stares at him rubbing his cheek. He can see the decades of hurt at the behest of beasts both human and otherwise; memories of betrayal at the hands of mankind spreads deep in proximity to flecks of gold. “Gorgeous, kind, gracious, perfect witcher. You are so good to me.”

He has always been someone who _loves_. Some people have been loved longer, more thoroughly than others, and there have been many fleeting faces. Transient in nature, a brief flash in his heart for how lovely someone is for as many reasons as there are blades of grass in a field. Jaskier has loved for much less than this man kneeling in front of him; he has loved for a stray piece of hair sticking up from the crown of a head as they walked by, for the gap toothed grin of a stable hand eyeing him up, a harmonious laugh. A lover’s touch is a prayer, kisses placed in reverence on the flesh of the altar. The sounds of passion and gratification are the choir that sits in the hollow church of the tumultuous world to make the days feel just a little brighter.

Beauty can be found anywhere one is able to look, and everyone is of importance in their own way, even himself. His father had called him a _weed_ , once, meant to be an insult to mean that his presence in the life of his family is invasive. Such a horrible word, implying that he could be contained by plucking as much of him away as they could to keep him in line. To have stifled him would have been to deprive the world of his talents. Without his singing, his wolven friends would have had a more difficult time in these past few years as hatred and fear let humans forget the sacrifice that was forced upon mere boys who had no choice.

Even a weed is beautiful, in its own way. 

A dandelion has many health benefits, according to his witcher traveling companion. They help stave off disease, and it has a host of medicinal uses, such as that it can be made into a tea that settles the stomach. It spreads far and wide by blowing the seeds off the stalk, where they take root and bloom all over. They make for fields full of beautiful flowers, and they are an important part of the ecosystem for the animals that rely on their presence. Something so small that impacts so much. 

Jaskier has loved for a lot less, but he loves now with a completeness that makes him short of breath. He holds adoration for admirable men that do their job until they fall. The enormity of _feeling_ is too much, much too quickly.

Affection can be so profoundly tender.

It is a weight that settles behind his ribcage, into his lungs and his heart, into his veins and his blood. It makes him _yearn_. Jaskier is a lovesick fool for a handsome, brooding wolf on a good day, and he holds a handful of them close to his chest. 

“Come here,” the words are spoken quietly while Jaskier tugs gently on Eskel’s head, who lets him go from the grip of his thighs. Eskel only gets halfway up before Jaskier pulls him into a kiss reminiscent of the one he had given him that morning, hungry for what he knows he will give him, but _oh_ how Jaskier aches now for more. He can feel Eskel’s breath stutter against his lips, falling into the gentler kiss with a skepticism that Jaskier wants to expunge with his delicate touch. 

All lips, breathlessly pressed together while Jaskier keeps a close hold on Eskel’s face. The genuine depth of sentiment swelling within is almost impossible to keep up with, it makes him pull Eskel closer, wrapping his legs around his hips and keening when large hands settle on his waist. Teetering at the edge of the yawning chasm of _want_ that opens up all at once feels more natural than words can express. So he tries his very best to put it into his kiss, opening his mouth into it with a soft groan. The bewilderment of his wolf melts away slow, not completely disappearing, but it simmers under his skin. Jaskier can feel it in the way the tension stays cooled tight in his body, deep in his musculature. 

Even without the infamous witcher senses, he can smell the stale sweat lingering on Eskel’s skin from a hard day’s work. It makes him wonder what it would be like to be able to smell someone’s _scent_ , the purest form of it, to know someone so intimately. How overwhelming it must be to know what desire smells like, the taste of happiness lingering in the air, and being unable to act on it. How acrid it must be to slay a terrifying beast, and only having sour scorn seep into the air and be directed at you for your efforts. Ungrateful people who hate, who have a bitter fear of differences between humans and non-human peoples. How horrible it must be to know what the vile scent is of the loathing of others directed at yourself.

Eskel pulls away from their kiss first, ducking his head, but Jaskier knows the look on his face of a man who thinks he is not deserving of a gentle touch. Having had one witcher swerve away from almost every single attempt he has tried to make to care for him, he is quick to reel Eskel back in. “You are not a novelty to me,” Jaskier says suddenly, stroking his thumbs over Eskel’s jaw on either side. “When I first saw you, my dear witcher, it felt like looking at the sun. I am used to being the traveling companion of a silent statue, I didn't know someone in your profession could be so bright and warm.” Musing out loud with poetry thrumming in his intentions; his breath hitches when Eskel’s hold on him tightens. 

How he adores them _both_ , his sun and moon.

Beautiful in all of their perceived monstrous traits. Beautiful _because_ of their scars and flaws.

“You trust far too easily, bard,” the controlled tone of his voice is betrayed by Eskel swallowing thickly.

“On the contrary, I trust very few people in ways that matter,” Jaskier says, pulling Eskel down into another quick kiss, looking right at his eyes while he does so. His own heart is pliant and malleable, as if being hammered on a blacksmith’s forge for how it grows bigger to fit long, twisted scars. “You are trusted by the only person I would trust with my life, and so I trust you, darling.”

 _Foolish_. Unsaid and hanging in the air, inspiring a litany of emotions to tumble out of Jaskier at record speeds. Jaskier is left _wanting_ , yearning and hungry, full of lust and aching with desire, craving that deep satisfaction he had felt from the previous night. He wants to curl up with his wolf and be cherished again—a selfish ambition, but not careless, for Jaskier to want a witcher to be able to feel at ease in his presence. 

Witcher heartbeats are much slower than that of a human, a fact he has learned very well far too many times when he thought Geralt may have died after a horrible battle. He has administered care for wounds and listened to his heartbeat to count the seconds, making sure it is getting stronger instead of weaker. He has counted the time between beats on a normal night when a drafty inn would demand close proximity for warmth; sticking his ear to the center of Geralt’s back, the steady resting beat lulls him to sleep during those times. 

Jaskier places his right hand over Eskel’s heart, palm flat, counting the time between steady beats. It is fast enough for Jaskier to know that his wolf is _feeling_ , whatever it may be that he is feeling. Whoever said that witchers do not feel had clearly never known one. He has spent enough time with one to know that what they feel echoes into an unreachable abyss, more serious and thoughtful and agonizing, an emotional depth that most people could never even _try_ to reach within themselves. 

“I want you to _fuck_ me. I want you to fuck me so deeply that you’ll smell yourself on me for _weeks_. Want you to fuck me full of cum again, want you to eat it out of me while it’s still warm. Want you to drag me to bed and _claim_ me.” He can feel Eskel’s heartbeat pick up beneath the flighty touch of his fingertips straying their way downward, then turning his hand to smooth his palm down his wolf’s stomach where the shirt has ridden up. The pads of his fingers trace down beneath the hem of his trousers, pushing down until he can curl his hand loosely around Eskel’s cock, circled at the base by Jaskier’s thumb and forefinger. Eskel moans a quiet, broken little sound and he _shivers_. 

Jaskier’s heart skips a violent beat when Eskel’s hand mirrors cupping his cheek, the feel of his calloused palm doing _many_ things for him. The feel of rough hands on Jaskier’s body makes him burn so fucking _hot_ for a witcher on a normal day; Eskel leaning forward to kiss him rapaciously, near lightheaded for how it steals his air. Eskel’s hips push against his hand, followed by a deep rumble that almost feels like whining against his lips and on his tongue, swallowing the noise down with his own sharp keen.

Jaskier can feel the damp patch on his trousers soak through with how wet he is considering he hadn’t put on any smallclothes in the late morning, but his own pleasure is secondary right now to showing his witcher how serious he is. He breaks off the intense kiss to take in a needed breath, groaning on the exhale. “Want everyone to smell me on you, know you’re _mine_ , wolf,” he mumbles against Eskel’s jaw, jerking his cock off while giving him kisses atop stubble. 

His long abandoned bet comes back to him the moment Eskel shudders, both palms suddenly slamming down to the wood grain of the table while he moans, “ _Jaskier_ ,” out raggedly. Eskel’s cock is hard and hot in his hand, twitching as he jerks him; Jaskier feels it a moment later, cum on his wrist, and then most of the rest landing on his palm as he pulls his hand out. Sitting back, Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to lick the mess up while Eskel puffs a few hot breaths between them.

It’s the second time in two days he’s heard Eskel say his name in the most heated way possible, and it feels just as powerful now as it had the previous night. Eskel’s larger frame boxing his in atop the table should feel threatening, or rather, it might if Jaskier were anyone else, but he has never been scared of a witcher. And he is certainly not scared of Eskel, who is looking at him with tempestuous eyes. There is a moment between them where uncertainty settles in Jaskier’s gut, and he wonders if he _did_ go too far. Eskel has no obligation to reciprocate the staggering intensity of his needs and emotions, nor to entertain his self indulgent fantasies of being the bard that walks amongst witchers as their advocate. 

Eskel’s eyes are still wild when they lock back on Jaskier’s while his hand finds its way to grinding the heel of his palm against his cunt. Neither of them have any words to fill the space between them, at least, Jaskier doesn’t—his heart is beating so hard it feels like it may fly out of his chest, fluttering so fast that it would be impossible to catch again. The want claws back into him deeper, until Jaskier thinks he may _die_ if he doesn’t get relief. 

“ _Eskel_ , fuck, _please_.”

The only way to describe Jaskier’s experience in the next few seconds is _handled_. Handled by a ravenous wolf who nearly tears his breeches in half trying to get them down, roughly tugging one of Jaskier’s boots off and letting it fall to the floor from his hand with a soft thud. The leg on the same side is pulled free of his pants, the fabric barely getting pushed out of the way in time for Eskel’s tongue pushing into his cunt. No teasing, _exactly_ what Jaskier needs right now. 

He wonders if Eskel can still taste himself, a question he would ask if he wasn’t trying to stop himself from ‘waking the whole keep’ up. A thought that makes Jaskier realize two things _very_ quickly. One, everyone is most likely still awake, and two, they are still very much in the open where anyone could walk in. And will Jaskier complain? Absolutely not. From the moment Jaskier had laid eyes on Geralt, he had felt every primal part of him light up mere seconds before he approached with a lame line about brooding and bread. An innate attraction to his traveling companion, lust eventually coexisting with love as they traveled. Knowing now, Geralt could smell it every step of their years together makes Jaskier _shake_.

What would he do if Vesemir were to walk in? Lambert? Jaskier moans loud, tapering off as he lays back on the table. His thighs are pinned again to the rough wood, blunt fingernails digging into soft flesh. Eskel is moaning up into him as he properly eats Jaskier out; he had taken his own pleasure last night, but Jaskier shudders and keens helplessly against Eskel’s tongue pushing deep enough to make his bones quake. It isn’t enough to just have the slick, filthy feeling of Eskel’s tongue sliding inside over and over and flattening out between his folds when it isn’t; when Jaskier’s thigh is let go, Eskel wraps his arm around the outside, bringing the sensitive skin in contact with Eskel’s coarse stubble. Jaskier tries very hard not to wail, but it feels like he is one orgasm away from calling the experience transcendent. 

If Geralt were here, he would hear them—he would know where they are, what they are doing, and he could stand outside and _smell_ them. Eskel’s rough thumb finds his clit and rubs the oversensitive flesh, Jaskier’s moans falling into a rambling whine, words unintelligible when his head goes empty. His head lolls to the side and Jaskier imagines Geralt bracing himself in the doorway and locking eyes with him, and _that_ pushes Jaskier over the edge. He cums right into Eskel’s mouth, writhing on his tongue where it is buried deep while he howls loud enough that he knows Vesemir will comment in the morning.

Jaskier hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed Eskel by the hair until his fingers are tangled in it, riding his face now that Eskel’s other arm has mirrored the one wrapped around his thigh. He keeps Jaskier in place against his mouth, vulgar kisses getting pressed to his cunt. Trying to squirm away is futile since Eskel’s hold on his thighs is firm. Jaskier ends up overstimulated, boneless atop the table and trying in vain to catch his breath. He can feel Eskel righting his clothing for him, and even the boot gets put back onto his foot for him quite considerately.

Laying on the table with his eyes closed, he ends up getting off his back, turning onto his side first, and then half onto his stomach with his arms pillowing his head. Listening to the ambient sounds of Eskel moving around and of soft water splashing, he realizes that Eskel is doing the godsdamned _dishes_. He lazily opens one eye so he can see the trajectory of his foot as he pushes the toe of his boot to Eskel’s thigh; his witcher is standing close enough to him in front of the dishes bin for him to reach, and he pokes at him a few times before dropping his foot back down. 

“That was _myyyy_ job,” whined out, and still unwilling to move.

“Seem to recall it being my turn tonight, songbird.”

“Hmm.” The classic grunt of a thousand meanings of his favorite men, and Jaskier is too tired out to say much else. Not enough to fall asleep, he still _desperately_ wants a bath, but enough to lay there and watch him. Now that the heat of the moment has faded, Jaskier is sure to analyze and overanalyze his motives, as he knows Eskel will go over it. They both need the silence to contemplate, perhaps.

Jaskier does not regret it. _Gods_ , he _never_ could.

* * *

“I could have done without getting carried around like a sack of _potatoes_ , Eskel,” Jaskier says, finally set down at the entrance of the springs. He can feel the heat from inside, and it is enough to get him to messily disrobe and toss his clothes down in a pile. 

“You would have walked all that way without complaining?”

 _Right_. “Well, no, but next time a little more _gentle_ , darling witcher.” It had been more funny than rude, but perhaps he wanted Eskel to sweep him off his feet, is that so much to ask?

Jaskier gets a towel thrown at the back of his head, the thing nearly slipping to the floor before Jaskier snatches part of it in his hand and pulls it up front to hold with his arm. Huffing, he steps into a pool far enough away from where Lambert is naked, laying facedown and looking dead atop a rock. He leaves him to it, knowing he has bothered him enough over the course of today. Besides, he would _much_ rather have a quiet bath.

Jaskier sits on the chiseled-in bench in the rock that has been smoothed with time, the warm water soothing him as he sits back. To his express delight, Eskel shows up with a chunk of soap and some cloth to wash with, stepping in and sitting beside him with a similar moan of appreciation. Their supplies rest on the side of the pool between them, but Jaskier soaks for a while longer first, enjoying the silence the small cavern affords them, the gentle sounds of dripping water from natural drainage creating a certain peace that settles over them. 

Beside him, Eskel sighs a quiet, deep noise that rumbles around in his chest. Half of the point of Eskel bringing him here had been the promise of some fucking around, and of course, the other half being _glorious_ bathing. Now that they’re here on the heels of their stolen moment in the kitchen, the energy between them has changed, but he isn’t sure how yet. It’s something he will worry about later, certainly, if it gets less comfortable.

Finally feeling like he has the energy a few long minutes later, Jaskier opens his eyes and takes a deep breath, turning in his seat so he’s facing Eskel as he asks, “Can I wash your hair?”

“Why would you want to do that?” Eskel asks, opening his left eye to look at him; it had not escaped Jaskier’s notice that Eskel had sat on the right of him with his scars facing away from him. 

“Because when I had my fingers in it earlier, it was gritty with dust and dirt. Also, I don’t need a reason to want to, do I?” It is what his wolf deserves after taking care of him, after all. And Jaskier is prepared to whine and beg all night if he must. 

Luckily, Eskel sighs and gives up quite easily. “If you’re going to _insist_ …”

“I am, in fact, going to insist. Turn around,” Jaskier says as he reaches for the bar of soap to sniff it before he puts it back down. It’s dreadfully plain and seems to be no different than regular soap that one might also use for laundry. The _audacity_ of the absence of fragrance. “Is this really what you all use to bathe with? No, no no, I’m going to have to make some soap.”

“So that you can have witchers stinking like your honeyed lip wax?” Eskel teases him while complying, leaning himself back fully into the water when Jaskier touches his shoulder and guides him backward. He keeps his eyes closed, which may be better for the both of them with Jaskier’s heart beating the way it is.

“Is it so bad to have a touch of softness when you’re able to indulge?” An innocent, rhetorical question that Jaskier knows the answer to is going to be ‘yes’ anyway. Because witchers don’t get to be soft, and they don’t get to relax on the Path. Jaskier will give Eskel this though, now, wetting his hair and gently pushing his fingers through it to rinse the dirt out. Not that there had been huge clumps, but he can feel the grit gently float down to settle onto the ledge his legs are crossed on. “If I can have a few months of witchers smelling pretty, I might just survive this winter. I’ll ask Vesemir if there are any spare soap making supplies and you _can’t_ stop me.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s right ‘hmm’.” Jaskier makes sure his hair is thoroughly combed through first with his fingers, trying to make sure there are no hidden grains of dirt. “And I bet if I hadn’t thought to rinse your hair out first, you would have gone at it with the bar of soap and scraped your scalp up.” Just like Geralt used to before Jaskier’s intervention. “You wolves are brutes with yourselves. Up.”

Beckoning him to sit back up on the ledge with him, Eskel complies while Jaskier reaches again for the subpar castile, lathering his hands up and putting the bar back on the ledge. Jaskier gets on his knees to get a better angle to work at, now looking down slightly while he starts working his fingers through Eskel’s hair. He can feel him relax just a little more now, imagines that he’s kept his eyes closed while Jaskier gently scratches at Eskel’s scalp. He is careful to keep his fingers consistent, lingering only when Eskel’s chest rumbles as direct consequence of grazing a spot behind his ears. 

Jaskier coaxes him back into the water, and Eskel complies just as easily so he can rinse the soap from his hair. This time though, Eskel is watching him with a peculiar face that is hard to decipher when he is effectively looking at him upside down. But the gold of his eyes sears Jaskier as dramatically as any brand, keeps him pinned in place long after the suds have been rinsed. As if trying to figure him out, perhaps trying to decide if his motives are pure of intention. 

His aching heart would never allow him to willingly cause pain for someone he adores, but Jaskier knows that even someone who does not design their interactions with hurt in mind, it can still happen. One careless word or action is an abrasion against trust that can never be taken lightly, no matter the offense. So he will tread carefully, and openly in the face of Eskel’s trust.

Jaskier does not expect vulnerability without giving his own in return.

“Up,” gently said, Eskel complying again and sitting up. Jaskier sits up on his legs again, kneeling closer and pressing his chest to Eskel’s back. He brings his arms around Eskel’s neck, crossing his forearms over his wolf’s collar bones while he lays his cheek to the top of Eskel’s wet hair. Eyes shut loosely and breathing quietly even while his heart thuds loud enough in his own ears that he’s sure it must be deafening for Eskel.

“Are you…?” The question trails off at Jaskier’s immediate hum that he is fine.

“You take me seriously,” is all he says at first, because it’s true. Eskel had done everything he could to make Jaskier feel comfortable and welcomed in Geralt’s absence. The sex aside, Eskel has entertained his rambling about music and the arts, seeming genuinely interested in what he has to say. He hadn’t hesitated when Jaskier introduced himself, nor when he’d seen and touched him last night and tonight. It means a lot more than he might be ready to say out loud without the ornate cushion of declarations of love spoken in ancient dialects that have been out of use outside of scholars for centuries. “Nobody takes me seriously,” spoken quieter, hugging Eskel’s head closer to his chest.

For all of his romantic blustering and prowess between the sheets, for all that he falls in love with the concept of a person, that ideal nearly always is betrayed. A lover laughing at him in bed is unfortunately not uncommon. That, or asking him questions about himself that are deeply personal about why he has to play at being a man (as if he is a woman). As if something as fickle as the notion of performing gender for someone else’s benefit has ever meant a single thing to him. There is no one or the other, and no category he would put himself in. Being mistaken for a man works just as well for him, but it is still a label he is divorced from.

A songbird is more fitting, perhaps. Something that can spread its wings and fly wherever the winds take it. Putting this into words is much too difficult for all the mastery that he has at it, and he doesn’t try to say it out loud, for his identity is unable to be contained or explained or understood.

Eskel’s hands reach up to Jaskier’s wrists, grabbing onto them loosely while leaning back against him. It feels like acceptance more than an arbitrary permission, chased into his heart on the heels of the sweet, subtle floral scent drifting up from Eskel’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can be found on tumblr @ jennyloggins, and on twitter @ somegarbageisok on main / @ slimejen on fandom side. feel free to come say hi or yell or whatever!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier continues to be fucking gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was completely unplanned and happened in the span of four or five hours. this time however it's [bulletincookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletincookie)'s entire fault for giving me the loose request of wanting to read more jaskier getting eaten out by eskel. 
> 
> this is like chapter 2.5 since i might write something else while also absolutely stone cold refusing to write what geralt's up to APPARENTLY. i meant for this to be a quick short little 500 word or so thing but i had other plans i guess. didn't spend a lot of time on editing so if u notice anything weird let me know!!
> 
> don't worry about it.
> 
> OH ALSO there is a poem titled The Disappointed in this chapter from a book called Poems of Pleasure by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. i had no idea who she was since it was a book i picked off of one of my fam's many overfilled-with-old-books bookcases since the cover art of the book was sick as fuck, but after i looked her up i've determined that i'm going to throw hands with any edgy piece of garbage that ever tries to use her words from the opening lines of her poem Solitude again.

Straddling Eskel’s face and riding his tongue had been an experience in itself, as had his handsome wolf eating him out while perched atop a table. Laying in bed though—Eskel holding his legs in place with those strong and rough hands, positively lavishing his cunt with attention—is a strong contender for his _favorite_ way to get eaten out. Where he had been frantic earlier in the evening, now it is clear that he is _savoring_ this. Long licks of his tongue up into Jaskier are fleeting, teasing more than anything. A leisurely pace that makes Jaskier huff and whine and murmur about how his body feels like it’s buzzing. 

They had come back from their bath earlier in the evening, stopping by the kitchen briefly for a snack and some ale to bring up to Eskel’s room. Once they got there, Eskel had _very_ reluctantly had to leave to go fetch some more wood for the fire, having run out of the small stack in the corner. In the meantime, Jaskier heads to his room so he can grab one of the Elven poetry books he’d taken from the library a few nights ago. A scandalous volume in itself to be in the library of a witcher, comprised of poems centered around the theme of pleasure. The concept of pleasure was turned upside down on itself though within the pages, he was finding. Sweet poems in the start evolved into philosophical explorations, and then into miscellaneous parts of the author’s collection that were much more deep when read behind the lens of someone seeking some sort of gratification. He had started copying down verses that inspired him in his personal notebook, but that was a project for the daytime, wanting instead to just read from it tonight at his leisure.

That is what he does, when he gets back to Eskel’s room; his witcher had also thankfully already returned, logs set on the fire and already lit. And so he took his trousers and boots off, hopping into bed next to where Eskel had slipped in under the furs with his own book. They had ended up reading together while sharing their pickings from the kitchen until Eskel put his book down and laid back on his pillow with his eyes closed, so he had taken up reading out loud for a good while. Jaskier had quietly thought that Eskel had fallen asleep until he’d felt a wet kiss to his hip. 

And well, from there, Eskel ended up under the furs while Jaskier sat up more comfortably against the pillows and the solid headboard. He does pull the covering back so he can see Eskel work; what a sight he makes, eyes closed in apparent bliss, worshiping Jaskier like he _deserves_ if he says so himself. He tries to keep reading aloud for as long as he can, picking another poem to start.

“There are songs enough for the hero  
Who dwells on the heights of fame;  
I sing for the disappointed—  
For those who missed their aim.

I sing with a tearful cadence  
For one who stands in the dark,   
And knows that his last, best arrow  
Has bounded back from the mark.

I sing for the breathless runner,  
The eager, anxious soul,  
Who falls with his strength exhausted,  
Almost in sight of the goal;

For the hearts that break in silence,  
With a sorrow all unknown,  
For those who need companions,  
Yet walk their ways alone.

There are songs enough for the lovers  
Who share love’s tender pain,  
I sing for the one whose passion  
Is all given in vain.

For those whose spirit comrades  
Have missed them on the way,  
I sing, with a heart o’erflowing,  
This minor strain to-day.

And I know the Solar system  
Must somewhere keep in space  
A prize for that spent runner  
Who barely lost the race.

For the plan would be imperfect  
Unless it held some sphere  
That paid for the toil and talent  
And love that are wasted here.

Eskel had slown down, instead kissing the creases of his thighs, teasing him by kissing over his labia, pushing the tip of his tongue against him and making him squirm with a breathless stutter on some of the words. He makes it through to the end of the poem though, then closing the book and reaching across to Eskel’s side of the bed to safely put it on the low table. Contemplating the themes and implications of pleasure and the underdog who still gets to be happy in the end hits a little too close to home at the moment, so Jaskier lets his body fall to the side, forcing Eskel to follow and try to make sure the position is still comfortable. 

“Good boy,” Jaskier breathes out when Eskel’s mouth closes over his clit, sucking the nub into his mouth and between his teeth gently. “Wanna please me so much, don’t you? You make it feel so _good_ for me.” He wants to write poetry about that mouth, he wants to pen ballads about how handsome Eskel is, and how kind he is. Something that he will never stop accusing his witchers of, how kind they are. That, and he knows what it says, for Geralt to bring somebody home; Jaskier can be trusted. He is safe as far as humans go.

Again, thinking of Geralt while being eaten out by Eskel. Can he be blamed, though? For wanting both of them, to love wholly and to take care of. Who else had ever done so for them without abandoning them to live without kindness? He refuses to do the same as others had.

“You’re _perfect_ , wolf. I’m keeping that mouth, it’s _mine_.” He ends on a growl when Eskel stops teasing, pushing his tongue in deep in one smooth movement. Jaskier’s legs are pinned down half against the pillows while the slick, filthy feel of Eskel’s mouth is pressed up against his cunt. The slight burn of his stubble rubbing against sensitive skin makes him have to grab onto a pillow to moan into in direct efforts for not being loud. Conscious over not wanting to keep everyone awake now, but Eskel’s mouth on him feels so good it makes him want to _drool_. “Mine,” Jaskier’s voice goes discordant, “ _miiiine_ ,” throaty, “perfect mouth, all for me.” 

His tongue pushes deep enough to make Jaskier bite down on the pillow, trying harder now to keep quiet. The scratch of facial hair, the press of Eskel’s lips between stutters in his rhythm. Eskel moans with his mouth flush against Jaskier’s cunt, making him grind down against him with another muffled whine. It’s too much, and not enough at the same time; letting the pillow fall from his teeth, Jaskier pushes his hips down as much as he can with Eskel’s hands pinning him. It turns out, it’s not a lot. Not enough to get the friction he needs, desperation clawing deeply into his skin. “ _Please_ , pleasepleaseplee- _e-Eskel_ —”

He can feel his wolf growl, and whine, and Jaskier’s hands finally find their way to Eskel’s damp-again hair. Jaskier is sweating again too, but he hardly cares that he will stink again in the morning. Jaskier has been made aware on numerous occasions that everyone knows what everyone is getting up to by sound and smell alone, but he has the thought that Geralt will be back tomorrow. There is no way he would _not_ know, he would smell Eskel on him immediately, and what will Jaskier do? What will he say to his white wolf to impart that he wants him just as badly? It is a conversation he is suddenly afraid of having, certainly brings him out of his head enough that one particularly deep thrust of Eskel’s tongue catches him off guard enough to make him keen and _shake_.

Eskel’s thumb finds his clit and Jaskier presses his face back into the pillow, accidentally touching the wet spot he’d made by biting into it. It’s the other hand reaching up and under the too-big shirt to squeeze at his tit the moment Eskel’s tongue slides _just_ right against his g-spot again that undoes Jaskier completely, feeling like he’s going to melt from the _inside out_. His release is white-hot and searing through him in a flash, Jaskier grunting low into the pillow as he cums hard enough to drench Eskel’s face with _something_. 

“ _Mine_ , please—mine _please_ , Eskel,” Jaskier is breathless as he begs, not caring about keeping score anymore as he feels Eskel’s body slide up his, making Jaskier lose hold on his head. He wants, and he cannot stop _wanting_. Everything. He wants to care for his wolves as long as they will have him. “Fuck me, _wolf_. Fuck, f _uck_ —” Jaskier chokes on his own breath when Eskel’s cock slides into his cunt in one rough motion. Animalistic in how they both make guttural sounds. 

Jaskier tosses the pillow aside and wraps his legs around Eskel’s waist, drawing him in and keeping him there while Eskel busies himself with tearing the shirt off Jaskier. It gets similarly tossed to the side somewhere, and Jaskier can’t help putting his arms around Eskel’s neck, trying to get him as close as possible. The feel of Eskel deep inside is still just as rapturous as it was the night before, more when Eskel’s hips snap against his in a brutal rhythm. Makes him wonder what Geralt’s cock is like and how he fucks. Jaskier’s seen it more times than he can count, and Geralt _knows_ , he’s always _gods_ damned known about how badly he wanted him. The thought is humiliating, but thinking about it, about Geralt walking in and seeing them and breathing in the filthy perfume of sex that is thick in the air—

“You keep thinking about him,” a growled out question, but it doesn’t feel like an accusation more than the statement it is. 

“Yeah,” the breathed out answer between them as Jaskier pulls Eskel ever-closer. “Gonna do a-anything about it?” His voice shakes, Eskel’s hips grinding down into him on every hard thrust. Leaning in to try and kiss him then, Jaskier’s lips miss and smear instead into the mess of his own slick on his wolf’s cheek. His lips part to let his tongue out, licking the mess upward, over Eskel’s scar before ending in a wet kiss over sensitive flesh. 

His witcher whines deep in his throat, hips faltering while he’s fucking Jaskier for the push into his personal space like that. Jaskier knows, it is a lot to trust him with, but _gods_ he is, “Hot, and perfect, and so-good-to-me. My witcher, m-my wolf, _mine_.” Eskel’s hips get more erratic, and Jaskier moves to kiss him again, a short peck against chapped lips parted to pant roughly. “Breed me,” a plea that is answered by another stumble in Eskel’s pace. “Cum for me, pretty wolf,” it’s punctuated with Jaskier kissing him softly, locking his ankles around the witcher’s waist and holding him close. 

The feel of Eskel spilling deep inside is no less intense now, especially in the low light when he can see Eskel unguarded in the aftermath. The raw look in his eyes is heart wrenching, it makes him grieve for what vibrancy Eskel was stifled of. Would he have been a writer perhaps? Would he have grown up from a more tender adolescence and become a young man with goals and ambitions? Would he have gotten to settle down on his own terms? 

He uses what little momentum he has to flip Eskel over, his still-stiff cock slipping out momentarily before Jaskier reaches down to line it back up. Sinking back down, Jaskier moans while he braces himself on Eskel’s stomach, grinding down and whining obscenities. 

Would Eskel have a family of his own? 

His legs feel sturdy enough to balance on while he rides Eskel’s cock, babbling pleasured nonsense while his mind runs away with this scenario. Would Eskel want to have children? What if Eskel wasn’t sterile? 

What if Jaskier got—

He hits his second orgasm hard and suddenly, making his body lock up with the force of it. Eskel steadies him best as he can before Jaskier falls, gripping his hips hard enough to surely add alternate sets of bruises come morning. The boneless feeling comes back tenfold, slipping down onto Eskel’s chest softly with the help of the strong arms that wrap around his waist. His wolf’s soft cock slips from him some time later, the gush of fluids following finally making Eskel lean over the bed to find the nearest article of clothing to mop the mess up with.

Jaskier is content and comfortable as the embrace of sleep claims him; in the morning he will be a foolish bard that loves too much, but under the cover of darkness with the wind howling outside he can dream of having everything he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr @ [jennyloggins](https://jennyloggins.tumblr.com/) and on twitter at [slimejen](https://twitter.com/slimejen). feel free to come talk or say hi or yell at me or whatever!!!!!!!!!!!!!


End file.
